Summer at grandmother’s

I was born in Virginia but I didn’t grow up in the South.

I did, however, go to North Carolina every summer for two weeks vacation with my parents.

We stayed at Grandmother and Granddaddy Clark’s brick colonial home in Winston Salem.

There were enough bedrooms for mother and daddy to have their own. I got to sleep with grandmother, a rare privilege to which I looked forward to all year long.

My grandparents (my mother’s parents) lived in the country, on two-lane Oakcrest Avenue. When I was little, their telephone number was 9896.

That’s right — just four digits.

The phone was a rotary dial, long-necked black appliance whose earpiece was firmly affixed to its base with a three-foot cord.

The upstairs and downstairs phones both rested on small hall tables with just enough room for a telephone and a city phone directory each, next to which were tiny little telephone chairs.

For years their phone was on a “party line” — as opposed to a private line — which supplied my cousins and me with untold hours of amusement.

I remember when the name of their road was changed from Oakcrest to East Polo Road. It was named for polo fields two or so miles away on what then became West Polo Road.

I never found out why a name change was in order — but I was confused.

Grandmother included me in everything she did while I was there. I particularly remember the grocery store a mile or so away where she did her “big shopping.”

My aunt would drive us down the road and pick us up in half an hour (we didn’t have cell phones, and there wasn’t a public phone booth on that corner).

For fresh meats and vegetables we would go to the Farmer’s Market all the way downtown or to a produce stand along the roadside, if grandmother couldn’t pick what she needed from their own garden.

In those days, there were plenty of little farm markets alongside of the road in front of houses with big gardens. The farther out of town you went, the bigger the farms and the more elaborate the market stands.

In the summer, no trip to the beach was complete without stopping to buy fresh tomatoes, beans and squash.

We always took cantaloupes bought from a farm stand in the sandy, hilly lowlands of South Carolina. Peaches were a must — both for dessert eaten out-of-hand and to take back with us for the best pies and cobblers around. Grandmother’s peach pies were the best.

PEACH COBBLER

For the crust:

1 1/2 cups sifted flour

Pinch of salt

5 tablespoons frozen unsalted butter

4 tablespoons frozen Crisco solid shortening

4 to 5 tablespoons ice water

For the filling:

8-10 large, ripe peaches peeled and pitted, cut into pieces

1 cup sugar

1/2 stick butter

2 tablespoons flour

Add to a large bowl flour, salt, butter and Crisco. Work with a pastry blender or use a food processor, until shortening is the size of small peas. Add water and process just until dough begins to bind. Remove from bowl or processor and form into a ball. Flatten to a five inch round and wrap in wax paper or plastic wrap. Chill 1 hour.

Roll out on a floured surface to make a 12 inch round. Place dough in a 1 1/2 to 2 quart cobbler dish. Fill with peaches and sprinkle with remaining flour and sugar to mix slightly.

Cut remaining butter into pieces and put on top. Fold edges of dough over top and sprinkle with 2-3 tablespoons sugar.

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Lower to 425 when cobbler goes in. Bake 1 hour or until it bubbles and has thickened slightly.

Serves eight to 10.

Linda Conway Eriksson can be reached by e-mail at ieatatmoms@gmail.com.